A Prime Example of My Own Stupidity... PENIS!

This book opens with an anecdote about a man courting a lovely woman who (upon seeing his over-endowed penis) screams, runs away stark naked, breaks her neck, and dies. He then ends up in the hospital, having hit his member several times with a hammer in frustration at his cursed existance. Here, he meets the priest who helped him write this book. The priest also suffers from "OMG" (Oversized Male Genitallia) and offers advice and ways to deal with the problems it entails, like the possibility of veins expolding during intercourse, dizzyness during erections (because of all the blood required to maintain one) , whether or not to get reductive surgery, and other entirely legitimate-sounding medical dilemmas. There were even personal anecdotes from other sufferers, and a self-diagnosis quiz.

After spending the afternoon in a deep state of confusion (surely over 8 firm inches is not all that abnormal?), it then took me 20 minutes of Wiki and google to confirm that it was, in fact, a joke.

Apparently, Borders didn't get it either...

Ennui

Stalking Youu...Stalking Mee...

OK, who has Google reader? I want to know. Obviously that question is slightly rhetorical (that is, if something can be just slightly rhetorical) because if you do have google reader then


1. You can't comment without bothering to type in the URL, scroll down, and click on the "comments" link, which obviously you won't do because

2. You are lazy.





And here's another thought: "Study of Women" vs "Study of Gender." My conclusion: neither is relevant in the most important grammatical context of "Make me a sandwich, bitch."

Yes, I might just hand that in.

Did You Know They Make A Hot Pink, Leopard-Print Vibrator?

From to newspaper clippings, to personal experience, to 5am games of drunk and dirty Truth-Or-Dare Jenga, here are five facts about sex that might just change your life. (Well, six if you count the title, but that probably only applies to me.) Maybe these don't apply to you or even to anyone you know; but hey, if I've learned one thing, everyone's different.


Fact: Women are more easily aroused than men.

Details: While physical arousal is not always the same as emotional arousal, this ability probably evolved over time as a defense mechanism against painful sexual experiences. (In other words, a man can only have sex if he's aroused, but a woman can be raped if she's in the mood or not, and the latter is incredibly painful.) As for emotional/more voluntary arousal, I think I can still safley flush the "guys are hornier than girls" myth down the toilet.



Fact: Straight girls like... girls?!

Details: Apparently, heterosexual women are far more easily visually stimulated by other women than men. What also matters is the holistic sensuality of the image displayed, not necessarily the gender. Here's the full article: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/12/fashion/12bisex.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1



Fact: Guys don't get off everytime either.

Details: While difficulty in achieving orgasm is far more common in women, it's not unusual for guys to not get off during intercourse every now and then aswell. Perhaps tits and ass aren't all that's needed after all?



Fact: Some girls can orgasm hands-free.

Details: Yet another fabulous reason to work on those keggle exercises....or maybe take up competitive swimming?



Fact: Porn just doesn't do it for some guys.

Details: Here's the story as I understood it: An acquaintance of mine started getting the occassional wet dream once he hit puberty, but when he still hadn't finished himself off and sent the fishies flying by the time he reached 16 he was convinced something was up. He went to see a doctor to get checked out. The professional diagnosis? "You just haven't met the right girl yet."

(Don't worry, he eventually did.)

Oh My Google

OK, I surrender. No protests, no radical resistance, no guerilla forces. Google has taken over and I accept that. Better yet, I have decided to swear my loyal allegiance to Google here and now, so as to avoid any problems when this becomes mandatory in the far future. Google, I am faithfully yours, there is no need to threaten my family or place dead animals in my bed.


They were clever alright, letting us think that we had control at first. We thought they were helping us with all their useful search engines, then conversion tools, then driving directions, then email, then statistics counters. Soon I suppose there will even be Google fast food restaurants. (Just think: GoogleFood. "Hey, honey I'm hungery, can you google me a burger?") But now we know the truth: They're on top, and resistance is futile.


The proof that Google now posses more power than any other entity on earth? Google Street View. Not only does Google know where you sleep, but it knows where you sleep in 360 degrees. We already have GoogleNews; It's now only a matter of time before "GoogleParty" sprouts up, followed by "GoogleLife."


So remember, if you happen to be doing something that Google might not like and you see one of these:






Run. Just Run.






(and maybe check to see if I'm driving, cuz that looks like a pretty sweet job.)

Oh, Canada!

Every spring, multitudes of American college students head north to escape the brutal, oppressive liquor laws of their country. They go towards hope, they go towards dreams, they go... to Canada.

The general consensus? Excellent. Going on vacation to Canada is exactly like going on vacation to Europe, except you only drive several hours instead of flying, and the exchange rate is actually in your favor. Really, cultural novelties, cobblestone streets, quaint pubs, and (in our case) awkward language barriers included. Poutine anyone? I might just never bother crossing the Atlantic again.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There are some things you do in life not because they're good, but because you just can't not do them. Things like rubbernecking on the highway, gawking at plane crashes, and seeing this movie:

http://blogs.villagevoice.com/runninscared/archives/2009/02/le.php


(obviously it will suck, but the hilarity of that artilcle entirely compensates)


PS- I've actually been wanting to blog about this for awile, but I liked the way the number of blog posts lined up with the month...

BloggerSex

Once upon a time, there was a lonely lady blogger. She frequently lamented her conservative family's perpetual insistance that she marry, compounded with the fact that she would probabaly become an old cat lady anyways, given her totally respectable, nerdddy tendencies.
But then one day, the perfect man for her found her blog by pure happenstance. He commented a lot, was blogged about, was met, and later... was married. Yes, married. It was truly the stuff that chick flicks are made of. I now can't help but muse that one day my blog too will become popular enough to attract random readers who will eventually fall in love with me. I think the conversation could go something like this:

CuteAnonymousGuyBlogger: Juicy, having read your blog for ages I can honestly say that you are an amazing, funny, quirky, intelligent, mesmerizing, girl and I would love to go out with you sometime. Since I have read your blog for a long time now, I feel that I know you intimatley and have already accepted all the things about you that you normally try to hide from prospective others by blogging rule #2. (Not that you have anything to hide, of course, being the coolest, most marvellous person ever.) I'm not a creeper, about the same age, live within a conveniant distance of you, share many of your interests, and also happen to be excellent in bed.

Now is that really so much to ask?




In other news, I have actually figured out why the number of guys interested in me at a given time is often comparable to the number of electrons in a hydrogen cation. Observe:

SexyMysteriousWoman: Hello, I'm sophisticated, intelligent, witty, well dressed, and have a complex personality that intrigues and attracts men. Guys seek to "figure me out" and then win me over in an impressive way. Men are are so attracted to me that they are willing to overcome the limits of convenience in my pursuit. I'm also flirtatious, but never too forward, as I have mastered the art of subtlety and non-verbal communication. I can be touchy-feely, but I never need to appear too interested, as my pursuers generally do all the work, and the slightest rejection only leaves them hungering for more.

Juicy: Hi, I like to make dumb jokes (sometimes at my expense), don't take many things seriously, and dress kind of like Rainbow Brite. I think acting differently to impress people is ultimatley a waste of time, and would much rather just be as honest with people as I can. I think the world would be a better place if everyone just tried their best to explain themselves, and subtlety is not my forte. When it comes to guys, I am either "friendly" or "extra-friendly." The latter is my best attempt at "flirty" since I was scarred at a very young age and thus, can never really act like that. I don't like playing games and, if given the opportunity, probably won't play hard to get because I don't see why I should risk discouraging someone I actually like.


Does it bug me that success in the social sphere ultimatley breaks down to basic psychology and tactics? Yes. Am I going to put this newfound knowledge to my advantage? Doubtful. Until then, at least my blog won't become overpopulated with posts gushing about my magical meant-to-be significant other on a regular basis. Really, just cuz you think he's awesome doesn't mean it makes for awesome blogging the tenth time around.

Why Yes, This Is Totally Blogworthy

Ever since I found myself in the presence of streetlamps on a daily basis, I discovered that I actually have a strange sort of influence over them. I am dead serious. Often, when I walk by an illuminated street lamp, it goes out just as I pass under it. This hasn't only happenned to me a few times, but with a freakish regularity on an atleast biweekly basis for the past five years. Once even, the same light turned off for me 3 times, on seperate occassions, on the same night. The very next night, another one also decided to spurn me.

I had recently started to intepret this as proof that I am, infact, some incarnation of the Devil. This is an entirely legitimate claim, seeing as whenever I reflect on the impressions I've made on other people's lives, it probably involves looser morales and a heightened affinity for substance abuse. I'm proud to say I've really inspired some of the most conservative people...But perhaps this is not the case?

Today, for the first time EVER, as I walked under a streetlamp at night, it turned on. I was shocked, then elated. What could this mean? Was this just a fluke, or had I been reassigned a more uplifting, less evil cosmic destiny afterall? Perhaps it was a sign of optimism during these stressful times? I was unsure. But then the unthinkable happenned. The next time I passed under that light that evening, I looked up to see it was in a very dim state, and half willed half dared it to turn on. To my shock- it did. This was clearly a sign. Compounded with my more recent aptitude for finding pennies (I generally get about one or two a week), perhaps things are looking up after all?

Oh Kaitzer...

A realization I felt the need to share with the world:



Some relationships are like Santa Clause: Back in the day they were the best thing ever. They were totally worth getting excited for, and the fact that you two had found each other in this chatoic and random existance that is life seemed either incredibly lucky or gloriously predetermined by some higher power, as everything just seemed to fall into place so perfectly. But then one day, something snares. When I was young, I once noticed a very specific kind of chocolate that my Mother ordered from a catalogue at school. A month or so later when that same chocolate appeared in my Easter Basket, my suspicions were aroused. One not so significant car ride soon after, I finally confronted the issue. "It's true," my mother confessed, "There's no Easter Bunny." "And Santa's the same?" I asked, "Yes" she said. Some Relationships are similar: over time, things just don't add up the way they used to. Eventually, you start to see flaws that you didn't even realize you were choosing to overlook in a haze of hopeful and happy romance. And then one day, you finally let yourself see the person for who they really are and not what you wanted them to be. You swiftly dump them accordingly, and that's the end of that.



Years later, you might find yourself in a bit of a relationship slump, feeling cynical and generally out of the Holiday Spirit alltogether. All the usual evidence shows that they've clearly been missing you and want to get back together (it's almost cruel really- how indifferent you've been compared to them) and all of your common sense tells you it could work. A quick Facebook stalk reveals they're better looking than ever (believe it or not, I might just have found a male under 28 who can pull off facial hair) and you start to wonder if maybe you were a little quick to judge them after all... but something still holds you back. Just like Christmas will never be the same without believing in the magic of Santa Claus, this relationship will never go back to being as good as it was before you dropped the roses and the rose colored glasses. The desire to return to such a happier state is understandable, but to attempt to actually do so is just foolish. (You did consider shelving all that and just using them for sex- but that would be cruel in their current state and make for one hella awkward reunion. Plus, that would require admitting to yourself just how desperate you really are- *shudder*.)



So it's pretty much a shit situation all round: You're stuck deciding between a relationship with someone who clearly cares about you a lot but whom you're not sure if you even like, or another who-knows-how-long of [insert tumbleweed here]. (Oh, and if you pick the former but change your mind, you just fucked them over twice.) You know the truth and what the right thing to do is, but like so many grown-ups, a tiny pathetic part of you can't help but wonder if maybe you're the Scrooge, and there really is such a thing as a Christmas miracle afterall.





Luckily, however, there are some realtionships you can always depend on. Whether you want to cuddle up with sweet textbook words or be fucked hard and dirty on an exam, there is one thing that will always be there for both. Oh yeah baby, guess who's back....

Oooh!

The Airing of Grievances

So I may have lucked out when it came to holy tires...but that was pretty much it. Let's look at all the ways this vacation has thus far epically failed:

1. Times I intended to visit my friends over break: 4-5. Times I actually will only if my luck improves: 1-2. Fucking snow.

2. Number of times I had to go to the tire place to sort out their fucktard tire job: 4. Hours spent going back and forth in the car on Christmas Eve because of this: 5+.

4. The Most Awful Tire-Changing Experience Ever: After waiting for over an hour to get my snow tires on, I'm hyped to go when I see that they forgot to give me my old tires back (retards), and my tire light is on. While I'm in the car waiting for them to fix the light issue, one of the mechanics starts hitting me up for my digits while his friends are (supposedly) fixing my tire pressure. After I blatantly but kindly crush any hopes he had of getting it on with me, I just want to get out of that place as soon as possible, but I then realize that I came into the garage at an obnoxious angle, and allow one of the other guys to back my car out for me. Great, now they all think I'm a bitchy prude, and a tool who can't even drive her own fucking car out of a tight spot.

I then had to return to the tire place twice after this.

5. This Year's Christmas Darwin Awards are some of the most worthy in ages. They include: a neon yellow J-Crew knit sweater, and a 2.5 foot-long wall sculpture (in aluminum) of Serotonin. (I may be a chemsexual and all, but that's just taking it too far). Expect a poll soon so as to determine which exactly is more hideous.

6. Things I remembered to bring home for vacation: The condo keys. Things I forgot: my passport.

7. Number of different responses I got, all from supposedly reliable sources, in regards to if/how I would still be able to travel: 3.

8. All I needed in the end: My driver's license. What I managed to lose between boarding the plane and landing: My driver's license. Fuck.



Let's hope this was enough for one "break"...

The Great Miracle of the Christmas Snow Tires

Christmas is supposed to be about miracles. I'm not sure how much I actually adhere to that whole "immaculate conception" story (uh huh...yeah...right. Good one Mary, no really, totally clever!), but I'm still a spiritual person, so from now on I've decided to dedicate one post each Christmas to celebrating a great miracle that has occured that year. This year, we will celebrate the Great Miracle of the Christmas Snow Tires:

So long story short, I was foolish enough to have allowed myself to both live in New England and own a car that doesn't have Four Wheel drive. This hadn't been a problem until yesterday, when a freakish blizzard hit and the 'rents made it pretty clear that I wasn't driving until Mother Nature was done PMSing. My freedom jeapordized, I quickly entered mild panic (and uber bitch) mode. Once things cleared up a bit the next day (thank God), I immidiatley got about getting a set of snow tires to at least fend of the worst of it, and gleam what little liberty I could.

A set of snow tires, that is, that were out of stock throughout the entire state. Unless I bought them personally off the internet, the dealer said, I would have to wait who knows how long to get Baby pimped for the season. This was clearly unacceptable. After contacting a local franchise of the dealer's supplier chain itself, I also had no luck. According to the computer, they said, the tires were out of stock everywhere in the state and might not even be availabe for over a month.

I don't know why I decided to google the franchise again after it had clearly jusy failed me on a whole civil level, but I did. I randomly picked another nearby town's franchise from a list of about ten, and called up. Yup, guess who had the tires. Two in stock, two to be ordered... and in by tomorrow. I also saved $100.

So have a juicy Christmas, and remember what we've learned here today: Either there is a Jesus and he loves you and wants you to be happy, or that computers downright suck.




PS: Randall Munroe, I love you, but really now what the FUCK do you have against Chemists?

Bad Life Decisions

Based on the title of this post and the time of year, you might think I'm referring to just throwing my last exam (which I only need a 65 on to still get a B+ in the class) and deciding to go get my drankity on with my friends who were free and doing so about 12 hours ago. Sadly, no. I am talking about the life decision that was made by whoever determined the last, oh, THIRD of my Logic 100 curriculum.

I can honestly assure you that attending lecture, attending section, and reading the book, will make absolutley no difference regarding how well you master the subject of Logic. Why? Because once you get past a certain amount of "oh, that's cool, learnable, and relevant" they pretty much run out of things to teach you. Due to this, they spend the last third of the semester talking about weird infinite numbers and playing dumb mindgames. I assure you that the last third of this class is instructive in no way, shape, or form, nor is it useful in anysense of the world. (The first bit? Sure, but they really should have just quit while they were ahead.)

The final exam does not really review anything you've been taught, it is simply a test to see how far you can stretch the limits of your imagination based on ABSOLUTLEY ARBITRARY rules, a diet consisting mainly of ESPRESSO, SUGARY CRACK BROWNIES, and BREAKFAST FOODS, about 5 HOURS OF SLEEP to last you TWO WHOLE DAYS, AND AFTER DEVOTING THE PAST 12 HOURS STRAIGHT TODAY ALONE TO THIS USELESS, IRRELEVANT, STUPID, ADVANCED PLACEMENT IQ TEST THAT SHOULDN'T EVEN GRADE YOU ON MATHEMATICAL ACCURACY BECAUSE SO LONG AS YOU ACTUALLY FINISH IT YOU'VE ALREADY MADE INFINITE LENGTHS YOUR BITCH ABOUT TEN TIMES OVER!!!!!!!


Aside from that, for someone who's been awake for almost 30 hours straight I'm feeling awfully normal and chipper...Care for some tea?

Collegiate Cooking

The Goal: Bailey's Pudding

Tools at Hand: a 2oz shot glass, a graduated Nalgene, cheap silverware, the tray that came with your refrigerator, and the set of heart-shaped mixing bowls you just had to have.


Go.

Useless

bi⋅month⋅ly  [bahy-muhnth-lee]
–adjective

1.
occurring every two months.
2.
occurring twice a month

Irkings Continued: Probability

In the study of cosmology, where actual data is scarce and one has to rely strongly on mathematical theory and probability, I find myself getting incteasingly frustrated by the approach so many people take with probability. This is actually a problem I've had with the subject ever since I first encountered it in my junior year math class. (ironically, this was the best I ever did on any type of math in that class by far- so hopefully this is not simply the product of my own stupidity)

So here's my super secret beleif: Probability is bullshit.

Really, it is. I can never say so in class because I will immidiatley be bombarded by people demanding an explanation, which I would then have to give orally and therefore deeply fail. But here's how it works:

If there are five marbles in a bag, each a different color, then the probabality of getting one marble of one color blindly is 20 percent. if you repeat this process, the more you do it the more the actual results will come to resemble what probablity dictates. So yes, probability can explain what has happenned in the past or over a large series of attempts, but it can tell us absolutley nothing about what will happen, and essentially breaks down when it comes to anything really important.

In life, very important decisions are rarely remade enough times to reveal their statistical nature. If you have 1 bullet, 100 or so square inches of skin it could hit on someone, and zero skillz, probability tells you that you will eventually hit the target you want at least once for every 100 or so times you fire. But you don't have 100 shots- you have one. As that bullet sails through the air, the chances are 1/100 that it will hit the target you want. Here's the common mistake: most people assume that since it is so unlikely, it won't happen. But what if it did? It still could, infact, hit the spot right on target. And once it does, where is your precious probability now? Since you only had one bullet and one try, it's completley irrelevant. If there was a different universe for each possible outcome, we could have been living in the one where it hits all along and not have even known it.

Now we can expand this thinking to greater things, namely probablity itself. Back to the marbles- there is a small chance that no matter how many times you grab into the bag blindly, you will pick out the same marble. But what if you did keep trying again and again, and kept on getting the same marble. It could absolutley happen. We might simply be unknowingly living in that specific universe of possibility, and in that indefinite phase before the next marble is taken out of the bag, no one is any wiser.

And here's another issue I have with statistics even if we ignore the latter- Birth Control. They say the pill is 99.9% effective, but what does that really mean? Does that mean that for every 1000 women who use the pill in their lifetime, only one will still get pregnant? Or does it mean that for every day a woman takes the pill, there is a 1/1000 chance that this is the day it won't work? Or, even worse, does it mean that for every 1000 individual times she has intercourse while using the pill, one of every thousand is unprotected? They're all very different actual numbers. Ponder it.

"Marriage is Soul-Killing Bondage"

The reason for my hermitage on this freezing Friday evening is a big reasearch paper due tuesday. Luckily, however, I am writing it on undoubtedly THE most BADASS woman of the century (19th or 20th, take your pick): Emma Goldman. And get this:






Familiar looking?

Wait, There's English on the MCAT?

It has not so recently come to my attention that I blog a shit ton more than everyone else here, but I never quite figured out why. I am aware that about 1/3 of my posts are/have been crappy emotional drivel, but even if you factor out that the ratio of my blogging to any one else on our little island* still stands strong. is it that, despite having a comparable lifestyle to anyone else here and just as little free time, I just think up more things that are blogworthy? Or is my definition of blogworthy just incredibly low?

Answers. Please.



*I say island because almost everyone who reads this blog has their own blog that is linked to it, as well as to the other readers' blogs, but to very few other places. The result of this is a small, intertwined network of blogs that I tend to imagine like a scarcely populated Island in the middle of the great ocean of the Blogosphere. I've actually spent some time clicking the ambigous "next blog" button on the top bar in hopes of finding yet another little colony similar to ours, but to no avail. (If i did have some sucess, it was either in a foreign language, or chronicaling the incredibly uninteresting lives of some group of devout religious families. Obviously not nearly as cool as us.)

Take That, Bitchy English Teacher

My old highschool advisor was interviewing an alum's kid for admission the other day. The alum remarked that the school nolonger had Sunday Chapel, and before my advisor chimed in to tell the story, he said...

"Yeah, I heard some kid wrote an essay and pursuaded the headmaster"


I am an urban legend. My life = complete.

On The Bright Side, I Now Own The Most Pimpin' Bathrobe Ever

It must be said-19 is a pretty insignificant birthday. Right before it there's the epic 18- legal adulthood in most cases, plus cigarettes, porn, and lotto tickets. Right after it there's twenty- no longer a teenager by any definition, and an age that starts with a two, signalling a whole two decades of existance. But what is 19 good for? Well, it's a prime number, and you can drink in some parts of Canada. Now everyone loves Canada, but is anyone really bothered about it? no.